


dualities

by fericide



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Assassination Plot(s), Ballroom Dancing, But also wants to lick him at the same time, Corruption, First Meetings, Friendship, Good Albus Dumbledore, Harry is a Little Shit, Harry's bored, Harry's sick of Tom's shit, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I really did, Light Angst, M/M, One Shot, Party, Politics, Royalty, Self-Indulgent, Upper-class etiquette or whatever, Witty Conversations, Wordplay, Young Tom Riddle, light humor, somewhere out there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27890173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fericide/pseuds/fericide
Summary: He's a whispered idea, one that exists behind gloved hands and within improper sentences: beautiful, untouchable and bound by the chains of duty and blood. And isn't that accurate?It is. Sometimes Harry thinks that's all he is.And then Tom appears to remind him that maybe, just maybe, he isn't.♡   ♡   ♡   ♡   ♡"Well," Harry says, angry and not knowing what is about to come out of his mouth. "Perhaps my vision was obstructed by that giant head of yours."So this is it. This is Harry's end. Years of schooling with the best tutors in the kingdom, and all he comes up with is you have a big head -"I couldn't possibly contradict so reasonable an argument. It is clearly not your place to apologize, but mine and my... giant head's." The man smiles. He's ridiculing him, Harry knows it."Let me, then, apologize," the man murmurs. "Perhaps with a dance?"♡   ♡   ♡   ♡   ♡In which Harry has a choice to make.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter
Comments: 13
Kudos: 170





	dualities

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Enjoy this self-indulgent fic I regurgitated in the span of a wild night. Comments and kudos are very, very appreciated. Like, if-you-leave-a-comment-I-will-literally-give-my life-for-you-appreciated. Anyway.

Harry is already exasperated with everything by the time he steps across the ballroom's threshold. He doesn't let it show, though. He never does.

He's a young heir. Aristocratic and sophisticated; one of the party's mysteries. One more appeal for this night of colors and glamour and pretense. What a joke.

It suits him  just  fine,  however, so let them make him into whatever they want. Wanna see enigmatic instead of reclusive? Sure.  Lets him get away with sulking in company of only Ron and Hermione instead of sulking in theirs, while they preserved their regular topic of gossip. Everybody happy.

He's a whispered idea, one that exists behind gloved hands and within improper sentences: beautiful, untouchable and bound by the chains of duty and blood. And isn't that accurate?

It is. Sometimes he thinks that's all he is.

His mom used to say people were like waterbodies, always changing and moving and collecting little trinkets on their way to their destination. If they are, he thinks, he'd be a well.  Static and constrained by stone and only receiving whatever other people decided to throw at him.

A well of possibility drained by expectation,  perhaps. Perfection is his condemnation, because it doesn't belong to him. He doesn't belong to himself.

The crowd notices him right away, of course. And how does that even work? He's  barely  even in the grand ballroom, and he's supposed to be smooth and stealthy.  He's also Harry Fucking Potter,  however, so he's not even surprised when they part for him like he's Moses and the crowd the Colorful Sea.

He surveys the room  quickly. Nothing noteworthy.  The ceiling seems miles away, and its protagonist, the  unnecessarily  great chandelier in the center of it, casts glimmers on the joyful masses of the upper-crust. The nobility is  easily  distinguished from the wealthy merchants here and there by the sheer pompous air they emit.  The staff are like phantoms in their running around to provide the magical ambient a party hosted by the royal family must have.

He's searching for Hermione and Ron as he scans the crowd, eager to get away. He loathes it here, where the people are empty and cruel and vain, but at least he knows what to expect. It's comfortable, if not exactly enjoyable.

He won't dance or socialize tonight. Dumbledore, the king, always lets him know beforehand if there's any efforts to  be made  on his part. Usually, his attendance is enough to  satisfy  the guests.

Everybody seems to think him above petty entertainments such as those. They would damage the idea of him anyway, so no need for mingling. Let them stare. Let them look and wonder and want.

He knows what they call him: _'The Boy-Who-Lived'_ ,  really?

He does,  however, sense something different tonight. It's nothing,  just  this restless feeling. A prickling in the lightning-scar on his temple, remnant of the day he failed to die with his parents. It always itches when something's off, and as weird as it sounds, he's learned to trust it.

_"The scar thing again?" Ron had said one time, face scrunching up. "Mate, if the Hogwarts thing doesn't work out, do yourself a favor and join a circus as their psychic, will you?"_

_Hermione had scoffed disdainfully. "Don't be ridiculous, Ronald. Harry, will you please listen to me for once and go see Madame Pomfrey about it?"_

_"I'm fine. It doesn't always hurt. That's not the point, though. Can we please just get out of this place?"_

_"You two dragged me here, don't you recall?" Hermione had said in disbelief. "I advised against it, repeatedly, mind you, and now you want to go back?"_

_"Yeah, mate. Let's just keep going. I'm sure it's nothing," Ron had agreed, and then had promptly screamed his tits off when he turned around to see a troll in their wake._

So yes, now he tunes into his senses, trying to figure out what it is that's wrong. He watches the people, listens to their whispers. And that's it. The people beside and in front of him, even as they make way, have a distracted air about them. They're not watching him. Their whispers are not about him.

They're all looking at _him_.

He's in the middle of it all, and he seems to  be manufactured  for the spotlight.  Harry  is headed  to the elevated table in the corner he usually shares with Hermione and Ron, so he's somewhat bordering the margins of The Great Hall. But the man, oh, the man is the one  being orbited.

The heir's never seen him before, but it feels like he has.  The familiarity is staggering in its insistence, burrowing  just  below his skin where he can't reach. He can't figure the feeling out. His scar tingles.

The man is tall, dark and handsome, and Harry wants to laugh at the cliché that his thoughts provide.  Perhaps  the man is in in the joke because he laughs out of nowhere, still speaking to a hungry mob of important-looking people, and Harry's breath catches because he thinks, even with the musicians still bleeding soft and refined melodies in the background, that he's never heard real music until now.

And then, like he's thinking too  loudly, and Harry  is scared  he is for an absurd beat, the man's gaze slides  easily  and crashes into his. His dark eyes, and of course they would be dark, are burning something intense. The man stops mid-sentence. He can't be less than twenty feet away but the moment is almost intimate, even with the chatter and noise all around. Harry shakes himself, and looks away.

It's all too easy to notice from then on. He hears the whispers like they're being murmured lovingly into his ear.

"Penchant for trouble, I've heard," he hears a whisperer speak. He does look like trouble. "Scandalous," another. "So very handsome," says the last.

Just who is this new man who has appeared to have bewitched the entire court? King Dumbledore has said nothing of an important visitor. He would have, normally, at least as a warning that the routine would be challenged temporarily.

Never mind that. He hadn't, so that must mean Harry is not required to do anything out of order.  He can finally make out his destination in the distance, his reserved table on the far-west podium, but neither Hermione nor Ron are anywhere to  be seen.

Harry walks  purposefully, even if he has no purpose at all. He looks to the left, searching for his favorite faces, and then to the right.  He's so distracted, and used to people scramming out of his path, that the last thing he expects is to crash into someone. Which is exactly what happens.

His vision of The Hall turns into an unintelligible blur, for a moment. It's not even painful,  just  plain embarrassing.  He's falling away from the world and the world is falling away from him and Harry Fucking Potter is about to fall on his ass in the stupidest way possible.

But then, that isn't happening, and the world stills once again. He blinks, and looks up. The first thing he notices is that the world given back to him is not the world he left.

He's all too aware of the big, warm hands on his waist supporting his weight, and he flushes.  Harry's green eyes meet the man's dark ones,  inevitably, and they're like refuge from all the overwhelming brightness around him.

This a good place, he thinks  absently  because his brain is like mush, from which to examine each dark lash and measure all the angles of the handsome face and scrutinize the precise shade of brown of his eyes. Harry stares and the man stares back with a nameless expression on his face. Which is very close.  Inappropriately  close, Harry realizes  belatedly.

Harry  absolutely  does not squeak as the trance they both fell into falls apart, scrambling to put some space between the bodies that had  been _pressed_ _against each other_ until then. He roughly pushes at the broad chest and away, _away_ from it.

Harry had seen the man from a considerable distance not a minute before, hadn't he? How did he-? How could it-? Harry squashes down the pointless thoughts, and the ridiculous ones. _There's no way that was_ magic.

He's still blinking his daze away when the mortification begins to set in. He curses his lack of composure. _What is wrong with him?_ He remembers himself, and is about to apologize, when the man speaks with raised eyebrows and upturned lips, looking amused.

"Is that any way to thank your savior?" Of course his voice is deep and velvety, syllables  being savored  like they taste divine and -

_What?_

"Honestly, one provides  assistance  and gets shoved for his efforts. If only there was a way to detect the rude people before offering help." He sighs,  mockingly  solemn.

Harry sputters, caught off guard. " _Excuse me?_ "

The man hums.  "I supposed that could  be arranged, if my aggressor, meaning yourself, of course, offered proper incentive. An apology,  perhaps." There is no hiding that stupid smirk now, damn him.

Harry gathers himself.  He draws upon the product of his countless tutors' collective exasperation, squaring his shoulders and raising his chin  proudly, disregarding the glaring height difference. "And why would I do such a thing? I am  clearly  not at fault here."

The man raises an eyebrow, eyes shining with challenge. "Not at fault, you say? Then who is, my lord?  I am the injured party,  merely  an innocent bystander suffering first your clumsiness and then your violence."

"That is preposterous," Harry snaps.

"You collided with me," the man points out  reasonably, but Harry will  be damned  if he concedes now.

"Well," Harry says, angry and not knowing what is about to come out of his mouth. "Perhaps  my vision  was obstructed by  that giant head of yours."

So this is it. This is Harry's end. Years of schooling with the best tutors in the kingdom, and all he comes up with is _you have a big head_ -

"Oh? Did my height offend you, sire? I didn't mean for it to be so.  Although," and he pauses here, very  pointedly  dragging his eyes over Harry's lithe form, and Harry _burns_ , "I cannot say I'm surprised it  apparently  did."

Harry flushes with indignation. "I shouldn't have expected you to be able to dissect an insult by yourself, so let me do it for you."

The man's smirk should  be outlawed. Could Harry outlaw it? "Be my guest, my lord."

"You seem to be awfully affected by the night's attention, it's  frankly  alarming," he says, hating that he has to tilt his head back  slightly  to maintain eye contact but doing so with decorum nonetheless. "You must pardon the court. We don't receive many guests." Lies, lies, lies. "They're  easily  impressionable."

"Oh?" Says the man, sounding far too amused for Harry's tastes.

"Indeed." The smile Harry gives him then is all teeth.  "I was  merely  suggesting you should be checking that inflated ego, or you might find yourself unable of fit through the main gates on your way out. Your height is irrelevant." Harry lifts his chin higher. "In fact, I have no concern with your height." And he might be overfocusing on the height bit, but that's not  really  the point.

" Is that so? That's quite... thoughtful of you, your Highness." The laughter in his voice  terribly  contradicts his straight face.

"Hardly," Harry bites out.

"No, it is. I couldn't  possibly  contradict so reasonable an argument. It is clearly not your place to apologize, but mine and my... giant's head." The man smiles. He's ridiculing him, Harry knows. Everybody is staring but he can't hear the whispers that have plagued his entire life. He hasn't heard them at all since he stumbled and got caught. The man bows next,  deliberately, until Harry is looking down on him and his breath is getting caught as well.

What is happening here? Why is Harry following along? He watches the man, because he is a man, not even a woman, and this is a scandal in the making. He follows his every motion with bated breath.

The man reaches for his hand then, and Harry's too stunned to do anything but stand there with wide eyes and let him take it.  He places a featherlight kiss on the back of it, never breaking eye contact, and Harry's insides threaten to fall apart and rearrange themselves, all the while _burning and burning and burning_.

"Let me, then, apologize," the man murmurs. "Perhaps  with a dance?"

He tries to say something but only succeeds in letting out a choked noise.  He clears his throat  softly  and says, "I would deem that option more punishment than apology,"  merely  to be contrary.  The man is still bent over and Harry wants to take from him, ruin him; several images of the other bent over are flashing across his mind.

The man straightens - _finally_ , he thinks without an ounce of disappointment - and nods in false understanding. "You must forgive my lack of repertoire as well, your Highness. I offer as good as I can give."

"Who are you?" Harry asks in a voice far shakier than he'd like.

"Marvolo," he says. "Tom Marvolo Riddle. But you can call me anything you'd like."

Harry would've made fun of the cheesy line in another occasion, but right now, it doesn't sound cheesy. Not in that voice, coming from this man.

"Ass," he says before his brain-to-mouth filter kicks in.

Tom smirks  lazily. "That's an interesting choice."

Harry's breathing a bit hard, and he's sure his face  is red, but his voice is steady and  convincingly  irritated when he says, "Do you even know who you're speaking to?"

Tom cocks his head, looking  thoughtfully  at him. "A young man of great beauty and no manners,  I think."

"You're a fool," Harry spits, feeling vulnerable and covering up with defensiveness.

"Indeed, your Highness," he starts so  teasingly  Harry  nearly  believes him. "I am but a humble buffoon, bound to the noblest. It is my duty only to amuse, and who could be nobler here than you?" He stretches a hand out in one confident move, like there is no chance it will  be rejected. Harry stares at it.

Reality sinks in, then, and he snaps out of it, going to back away.  He tries to ignore the way his stomach flips at the evident disappointment on Tom's face when he detects the movement.

What is Harry thinking? He has responsibilities. He can't afford this kind of stunts. He's already let it get so far, too. Still, he hesitates.

"Penchant for trouble, I've heard," comes a whisper. Harry believes it.  He's willing to bet his entire lineage on it being a fact, because Tom Marvolo Riddle looks and sounds and feels like trouble.  He suspects Tom Marvolo Riddle should rhyme with chaos and corruption and heat beneath Harry's skin. Tom's not comfortable at all, not what he expected here tonight. It's only an inkling, but Harry's gut has yet to fail him.

"Scandalous," says another. It would be. It already is. Harry looks around  furtively  and almost staggers at the stillness of the room.  He had been too caught up in the little game to notice, even if he knew somewhere in his mind that everybody must be watching. Everybody is. They're watching and whispering, excited and malicious. His fiancee is amongst the crowd somewhere, he knows.  If Dumbledore doesn't already know, he will soon, and Harry's certain he'll have that chagrin the heir hates so much shining in his eyes.  His parents' faces, the former King and Queen, flash behind his eyes and he feels ashamed, like he's insulting their memory.

"So very handsome," whispers the last. He knows this truth to his bones. Tom is handsome and new and exciting. Harry's never thought himself to be  exceedingly  sheltered; he's met handsome men before. Harry's the prince, damn it, next in line to the throne as soon as he's of age.  However, Tom's so lovely that it's difficult to resist him. He almost doesn't want to. It's shocking, the way he's burning up from within, and he doesn't recognize the boy who rises from the ashes. Since when is he capable of feeling these things?

Who does this stranger think he is, instilling such turmoil first in his Kingdom and then from within its future ruler?

It gets to a point where he can't make sense of his own thoughts.  They're abstract things speeding across too fast too grasp, infected by the pandemic commotion. Somewhere along the way, though, Harry's made up his mind. He's certain.  He looks at the man gazing at him  curiously, the tentative chaos; he looks at the familiar faces he doesn't actually know, the terrible order. He looks within himself, where the forces  are imbalanced.

He loves his kingdom. He would die for it in a heartbeat. He's more than an idea, though. He's more than the whispers and the gossip and the expectations, even if he forgets sometimes. He thinks of his mother, of all the adventures Sirius tells him she had with the marauders in her youth. Harry's a well of possibility, and so he shatters the stone and lets himself burst free.

Tom must see the change, because for half an instant, he looks taken aback.  When the expression is gone, a slow smile curls over his pretty lips, darker and more dangerous than the ones before. Harry gets the feeling there's more to this man, because this smile strikes him as the most genuine until now. Harry's scar _aches_.

The hibernating predator hiding underneath The Prince's carcass seems to recognize a kindred spirit, making him wary. _Threat!_ It says. _He's a threat! Retreat! Pounce! Tear him to pieces and leave nothing!_

The Prince lifts his chin with all the dignity he can muster. He's almost vibrating with the thrill of it all, and he might be uncertain somewhere in his mind, but not here, not now.

"Let us dance, then." Harry takes his hand.


End file.
